Potty Training...

This too shall pass ... a BM!!!

Straight from the "4 year old's mouth"...

After praying, my son asked me if we could read from "the heavy Jesus book".

The Million Dollar Question...

Shall thy allow thine child to watch the thine television?? And I say "thy shall be done" until Comcast catches on and starts adding a "Babysitting" service in their already ridiculously long list of unexplainable fees!!

Misery Loves Company

I'm starting to believe that the phrase, "misery loves company," was created by a parent.  Why else don't other parents EVER tell you the cold, hard, drive-you-to-drink truth about what a potty-pooping, game changer, parenthood really is.  No one subtly hints to it when you're considering it, or ever politely mentions it when you're enthusiastically sharing with everyone that you're “trying”.  And then of course, no one SPEAKS UP when it's too late and you have to learn the hard way the real meaning of sleep deprivation and why the phrase "sleeping like a baby" was NOT created by a parent.  AND why we can build submarines but can't make a diaper last all night before exploding and leaving what can only be described as tiny little reminder beads, (and choking hazards to children under 3) that when the baby whimpers to let you know that he/she needs to be changed, it's not like hitting the snooze button.  5 more minutes only buys you 5 more minutes of whimpering, which leads to at least 5 more minutes of crying, and an additional 20 minutes changing the diaper, the dang buttoned onesie (because all the zippered onesies are in the wash), and the crib-sheet pee-pad that wasn’t as durable as the one you should’ve bought but its pattern matched the nursery perfectly.  So the pee just soaked straight through it, the crib sheet, and the waterproof crib mattress pad.  You know the one that you got on sale and therefore the pee soaked through IT too, down to the "I should've bought the vinyl covered crib mattress, but the noise of a baby rolling around on it all night, has to keep you up, yet ironically, you're up now" as well as any toys or blankets you shouldn't have in the damn crib anyway!!! 

It doesn’t make you less of a loving, grateful and blessed parent to admit that this, “way below minimum wage, you wanna pull your hair out and marry mommy’s little helper job,” is the most challenging, but hands down the most rewarding because you will never, EVER love anyone like you love your child.

So SPEAK UP you, "you should have kids, what are you waiting for, parenthood is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get, but it's ALWAYS gonna be glorious," friends and family members who hold your tongue and bite your lip.  The “I told you so club” is one you’ve always aspired to be a member of and nobody’s going to listen to you anyway even if “misery loves company”. 

Straight from the "2 year old's mouth"...

"It's not poo-poo, it's -ART!!"

Pinterest Crafty???

One of the parents at my children's preschool asked me if I was "Pinterest Crafty"?

My response..."The only CRAFTY I know is part of a title to an old Beastie Boys rap."

Trade-Off

Four years ago, I heard the urgent wails from my biological clock. Calling out like a time bomb.  Tick, tick, ticking, "before it's too late".  So without a moment's hesitation, I jumped into action and swiftly silenced those cries...with a baby's.

A trade-off.  One cry for another's.  One, bikini ready stomach, for a built-in, baby-carrying muffin top.  The ability at any time to blissfully flip through the pages of Cosmo and sniff EVERY perfume sample, for the ability to smell poop, literally poop, from miles away.  And if it belongs to one of my own kids, I could smell it from another planet.  From having the perspective that everyone is entitled to their own privacy to having eyes in the back of my head.  As well as, the freedom to "get to it" when I was ready to having "baby-catching, plate-falling, vase-teetering, if that fork lands with it's teeth down", cat-like reflexes.

Sometimes I wonder, could Mom's really have it all?  Could we pull it off like Clark Kent and Superman? Can we trade-off our "by-day" aprons for "by-night" mini skirts?

Sure. But who has the time!  

Straight from the "4 year old's mouth" ...

"My bees don't sting. They just wanna give me a high five!"

This is How We Bowl

Raising children is like bowling.
It starts with the bowling ball shape your pregnant stomach takes and trading in your heels for "something more appropriate for the game", to crib bumpers and safety pins, from setting boundaries and teaching them to toe the line, all while sparing their feelings and teaching them their dreams are within striking distance.
So with your child in your hands, you point them in the right direction and let go. You'll become that hand waving, knee jerking, hip swaying, "what would you call THAT grunting gesture", sideline parent you used to make fun of and swore you'd never be. Embarrassing them every step of the way as you "guide" them on their journey, with your Elaine Benes dance moves, in hopes that they will avoid the gutter and knock down everything in their way.

Straight from the "4 year old's mouth"...

When I told my son I only have two hands he said, "I wish you were an octopus!"

Straight from the "4 year old's" mouth...

As we walked through the doors of the church and approached the baptismal font, my son so innocently shouted, "Anybody got a coin?"

Straight from the "4 year old's" mouth...

"Jesus is always with me, except when he goes to work."

Recovery Woods

Recovery Woods...it's the place where you have given birth and you and the baby are "out of the woods", recovering and doing well.  The place where you both will be wearing diapers, but only one of you will eventually grow out of them. The place where you thought the "all-you-can-eat" Percocet buffet was to numb the pain of delivery, not to blissfully distract you from the truth that although you gave Elastic Man a run for his money, you will not be winning any continent competitions. 

Because while you're baby's bladder is getting stronger, yours' has pretty much decided that it's strength was the best quality you could pass down. While your baby's bladder is learning control and discipline, yours' has decided to find a new dream and become an infamously and poorly knotted water balloon just waiting for it's opportunity to explode, all the while bouncing around with such anticipation to cause an "if I was sent to hell and was condemned to being stung by a jellyfish for eternity, I wouldn't feel a thing" kind of leak. And while your baby's bladder will mentor a camel's hump, yours' will spill when you squat, walk, run, jump, dance, sit, stand, cross your legs, uncross your legs, sneeze, cough, laugh, talk and breathe.

So although it has been two years since my daughters birth and four years since my sons, I am stuck in "Recovery Woods" with no place to "go".

Crazy's contagious. Cover your mouth.

I honestly thought that when I had a baby I'd be like Angelina Jolie when she had her first child.  Carrying around my oh-so peacefully sleeping newborn in a sling across my "bounced right back to my pre-baby" body.  I'd have a smile on my Ray Ban aviator adorned face, looking calm and freshly showered, browsing through the new arrivals clothes rack at H. Audrey’s.  Boy, was I in for a rude awakening.  Well, it would've been if I ever got any sleep to be awakened from, that is.

And if the paparazzi would've caught a glimpse and taken a picture of my first days as a mom, you would've witnessed the other, not advertised use for the sling...the straight jacket.  

After hours of wrapping, tying, unwrapping and untying, I looked like I was an escapee from the local psych ward.  In hind sight, it was one of the first warnings of the days to come, but I digress.  So instead of a sling, my oh-so NOT-so peacefully sleeping newborn, would be in a carrier attached to a stroller that of course, won't squeeze through the clothes racks at H. Audrey’s.  And it wouldn't matter anyway because the minute the stroller stopped, the wailing started.  So I would be left to “drive-by” shopping.  Grab anything in black, or body-slimming dark, that’s “hung” on the hanger.  Not something that looked like the hanger had to be sucked through it and that was on sale because as the saying goes, baby needs a new pair of shoes...and diapers, wipes, bibs, onesies, the long sleeved and short sleeved and the ones that zipper, not the ones that button because trying to button up a onesie at 3am with one eye open, in a zombie like trance, in the dark is like trying to read brail except you’re not technically blind and you have no idea how to read brail!!!

Now where was I, off topic, AGAIN.  Blame it on the “Mommy Brain”.  It works every time.  People will either empathize with you, if they have children, or have absolutely no idea what that means and just the idea of putting “Mommy” anything in a sentence to people without children, especially those who don’t want them or are nowhere near having them, will think you’re crazy and nobody questions crazy.  

Crazy’s unpredictable, scary and to some, contagious.  So use it...overuse it.  Use it when the grocery clerk sees you drop an unpaid Chapstick in your diaper bag because you’re not an Octopus and you only have two hands and your baby just projectile vomited down aisle 5 and all over your produce, you didn’t bag, because since the baby you swore you were going green, organic, all natural, gluten free and every other "thrown in your face, you best be following because if you don’t follow you’re a terrible mother" trend.  Use it to get you out of a speeding ticket.  On one occasion I had 4 car seats in my vehicle because one was designer (but the baby hated it), one “looked” designer, one was on the top of the FDA’s safest list and one was recalled.

And depending on who I was having a play date with and wanted my baby to be seen in, well, I had options.  But back to getting out of the speeding ticket.

When I was pulled over, by two young, male officers, and asked for my license and registration, well, I of course didn’t remember moving the registration paperwork to a compartment in the trunk because I needed to make the teensy, tiny room in the glove box for emergency items only.  Because once you’re a mother, the comfortable, safe, trusting, what could go wrong world you lived in before you were a mother, becomes a stink-eye, I see what you’re doing even though you don’t think I see what you’re doing, because I have eyes in the back of my head, worry filled, frequently checking the predator list in your neighborhood, if it can go wrong it will world you live in now.  And to be prepared for anything, I carefully loaded this teensy, tiny space with whatever I could fit and thought would come in handy.  A diaper and travel package of wipes, self explanatory...tissues, and a plastic spoon, again self explanatory...a map (which I could probably make some money off of on Ebay because I’m pretty sure they don’t make them anymore), in case I get lost on my way to a new play date and my iPhone falls in between the seats and manages to slip just far enough that even my longest finger nail can’t get a grip on it.  This leads me to my next essential item, a nail file, again self explanatory...a swiss army knife, a screwdriver and a some extra fuses because I just feel stronger and safe to know that they’re in the there.  And most important of all some chocolate covered coffee beans and a pair of oversized sunglasses to hide the sleep deprived bags under my eyes.

Thankfully the officers didn’t actually look in my glove box because they may have thought I was a terrorist.  Fortunately, they simply walked me to the back of my SUV, because what other type of vehicle has that kind of "make you feel like you’re driving a tank, safe feeling" when traveling with a baby.  And as soon as I opened the hatch and revealed the four car seats, only one of which I was using because I only had one baby, the “Mommy Brain” excuse made perfect sense to the officers.  Now I’m not sure if it was empathy or "this bitch must be crazy to have four kids", got me off the hook or not, but who cares.  I got off with a warning.